


A Certain Shade of Green

by AppleSharon



Series: Good Omens Kink Meme Prompt Fills [6]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Anal Sex, Confident Aziraphale (Good Omens), Eventual Relationships, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Sex, soft, very soft actually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-04
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:34:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23019406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AppleSharon/pseuds/AppleSharon
Summary: Six weeks ago to the day, after another long day at work, a few too many fingers of whiskey rather than supper, and a sudden, maniac urge to create, Crowley had found himself in some less-than-savoury corners of the internet under the guise of looking for life-drawing inspiration.Instead he had discovered an angel.Aziraphale stumbles into becoming a popular, sex-positive porn streamer and Crowley stumbles into becoming his most dedicated fan. Eventual romance and relationship.Human AU written forthis Good Omens kinkmeme prompttitled "Aziraphale the porn streamer and Crowley the fan."
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Good Omens Kink Meme Prompt Fills [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1409533
Comments: 121
Kudos: 223
Collections: Good Omens Kink Meme





	1. Prologue: Anthony J Crowley

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I know I shouldn't be picking up new prompts but this one was too good to pass up. I hope I am able to do it justice.

Anthony J Crowley’s pocket buzzed the entire walk from Green Park to his Mayfair flat. 

It was only a few minutes, yet no sooner had he thought that the person on the other line would capitulate to his seeming inability to answer the phone than the buzzing would begin anew. 

Which meant it could only be one person. 

After one more round of buzzing, he answered with a noncommittal hum. 

“Anthony, that’s no way to answer the phone!”

Gritting his teeth, he balanced the phone between his cheek and shoulder as he quickly keyed in the code to his building. 

“It’s Crowley, Beez, how many times do I have to tell you?”

“Yes yes,” Crowley’s sister tutted. “I forget these things, especially when we haven’t seen you in forever.”

Tucking his briefcase underneath his left arm, Crowley pinched the bridge of his nose with his now free hand, massaging between his eyes in order to stave off his impending headache. He was loathe to take the stairs after an exhausting day, but the stairwell provided unique cover in the form of a cellular dead zone. 

Sure enough, his sister’s voice began to crackle in and out the moment he set foot on the first step. 

“What’s that Beez?”

Crowley made a show of yelling into his phone, hoping that his performance was good enough to get him off the hook with his family for another few weeks. His voice echoed up several flights of stairs.

“I can’t hear you! I’ll call you back!”

He slammed his finger onto the red “X” at the bottom of his touchscreen as if he could physically feel the satisfying weight of pressing a button, firmly disconnecting the call. There was little doubt that she would try again, most likely next Friday, but at least he had bought himself another reprieve. 

Sighing, Crowley ran his hands through his hair, tugging a bit as he loosened it from the hold of the gel he had slicked it back with that morning. He had made his way up two flights of stairs in his rush to rid himself of his sister and resigned himself to trudging up two flights more to his flat.

He didn't have anything specific against Beez, really he didn't. But he also didn't want to be dragged into what would no doubt be a lengthy discussion of whatever the entirety of his family was up to.

With care, he placed his briefcase down in the entryway, removed his loafers, and his tie. For a brief moment, he thought about throwing it from the hallway haphazardly into his study where it would perhaps land on one of his drying oil paintings or into the moist dirt of his potted plants. 

Instead, he dutifully walked to his bedroom, folding the tie and placing it in his top drawer alongside two others. 

One of Crowley’s secrets was that he only had about six outfits in total, but they were expertly tailored to his body — no small feat given his lanky proportions and full 201 centimetres if he wasn’t slouching, or so he had been told by a cranky tailor years ago — and could be mixed and matched as he liked. Crowley wanted some semblance of agency, even if it was wholly false, and if that meant forgoing the massive individual walk-in closets of his brothers and sister, so be it. He would do with less and he would take care of what he had to keep up appearances as necessary. 

Crowley looked at his watch, quickly taking it off and leaving it on the nightstand before grabbing a bottle of wine from his kitchen. 

He hadn’t enjoyed wine, or sought out specific vintages until very recently. 

Undoing the top button of his shirt, Crowley made his way to his computer desk. Soon, his monitor beamed at him brightly in the dark as he looked at the upper left corner of the screen. It was nearly 22:00.

Six weeks ago to the day, after another long day at work, a few too many fingers of whiskey rather than supper, and a sudden, maniac urge to create, Crowley had found himself in some less-than-savoury corners of the internet under the guise of looking for life-drawing inspiration. 

Instead he had discovered an angel. 

From what Crowley could tell, A.Z.F. was in his late-twenties or early-thirties with a round, cherubic face and long blond curls that grazed his eyelashes. He had no idea what he’d typed into the search field to find A.Z.F. — he’d been very drunk — but the video had been at a meagre 149 views when he’d stumbled upon it. 

It was now closing in on 200,000.

A.Z.F. was hardly experienced in making videos (of this type or otherwise). The camera had wobbled several times throughout and A.Z.F. had seemed at a loss for what to do. Hiccoughing intermittently while occasionally drinking a red wine straight from the bottle, A.Z.F. had slowly undone his trousers, stroking himself in breathy moans while running his hands down his thighs until he came. 

This video was without a doubt, the hottest thing that Crowley had seen in his entire life. A.Z.F. was the hottest man he’d ever seen in his life.

Crowley had gripped at his own thighs tightly, wishing that they were digging into the plushness of A.Z.F. The blond man had the softest-looking body, a slight belly peeking out from his waistcoat and shirt which he had kept on the entire time and Crowley hadn’t known just how into that he was until A.Z.F. showed him. Crowley had watched that video well over twenty times at this point, rubbing his cock desperately until he came. 

_You’re beautiful, angel_ is what Crowley ended up typing as his first-ever comment as “RidemyBentley” — a name that he now regretted making but could not change — after he’d quickly wiped his hands with a tissue to type. 

When he woke the next morning, stiff from falling asleep in his computer chair, Crowley had a quick response from A.Z.F. that read, “You’re too kind. However, I do seem to have received a positive response! I’m thinking of possibly starting a stream.”

Crowley didn’t consider himself a complete cynic, yet, but he still read A.Z.F.’s message over and over again until the letters began to swim between his eyes. Was this a thing that people did — talking to beautiful people on video that they had just recently wanked to? The most cynical part of Crowley told him that A.Z.F. was likely just looking to drum up viewership, but his comment response had been oddly guileless and he hadn’t included a stream link as one would expect from someone trying to promote themselves. 

And perhaps, yes, Crowley was admittedly lonely, but the disorganization and frankly terrible camerawork of A.Z.F.’s first video didn’t exactly scream competence, never mind someone grasping at any avenue for money. 

A week later, RidemyBentley was a stream regular.


	2. Prologue: A.Z.F.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Aziraphale’s first foray into this particular side of pornography had been inauspicious to say the least. It had involved several bottles of wine, a bad breakup, and falling asleep while still on camera._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have had . . . too much fun with the stream sub names. 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has kudosed or commented thus far. The warm response to this has been really amazing.

Breathing heavily, Aziraphale turned slightly to his left. His hand slowly released his softening cock. Although he was loathe to move from where he was splayed out on his sofa, discarded waistcoat and trousers rumpled underneath his body, Aziraphale drew himself up into a seated position. 

“And with that, my dears, I think I’ll retire for the night. Apologies for the short stream.”

He hoped his viewers would understand. He thought they would, given that they had been, for the most part, shockingly kind and receptive. It was much different than what he had been led to believe, dirty language aside, of course.

**BabyyShark:**  
_Next stream whennnnnnn?_

**아이유님:**  
_지금 사랑해~~ ㅇㅅㅇ_

**i_i__ii_i0:**  
_!playlist_

**dr4c0DRACO1208:**  
_Want to fuck you so bad_

**Starryice69:**  
_god azf_

**76092742:**  
_加油!_

**ezAFan:**  
_ㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋㅋ ㅠ_ㅠ_

**clove7777777777:**  
_u r so hot i cant asdfjhasdfhaksjsad fuck_

**perfectcl4rity:**  
_( ﾉ ﾟｰﾟ)ﾉ_

**nvmn00b:**  
_Short stream but still hot!_

**perfectcl4rity:**  
_ｷﾀ━(ﾟ∀ﾟ)━!_

**i_i__ii_i0:**  
_srs why is there no playlist? where is the music from?_

**RidemyBentley:**  
_Take care of yourself, angel._

The final commenter was one who had been around since almost the beginning, and they never failed to make him blush with their attentiveness. 

“I will!” Aziraphale said aloud with a small wave, wiggling his fingers. 

He hummed happily and looked at the camera with what he hoped was a bright smile before reaching forward and shutting it off. Sighing contentedly, Aziraphale stood up in search of a flannel that he could soak with warm water for a quick cleanup. 

Aziraphale’s first foray into this particular side of pornography had been inauspicious to say the least. It had involved several bottles of wine, a bad breakup, and falling asleep while still on camera. 

He wasn’t particularly adept at the internet, and had rarely used it before stumbling quite literally into an accidental part-time job as a streamer. But that night, after a bottle and a half of wine, Aziraphale found himself blowing dust bunnies off of his unused laptop with the words of his ex-boyfriend ringing in his ears.

 _You’re just so . . . soft._ Gabriel said with only a hint of disapproval. Gabriel didn’t show strong emotions one way or another, Aziraphale had learned this very quickly during their one-year-and-five-months relationship. 

_I mean really, what did you think would happen, Ezra?_ Gabriel continued. _Try to see this logically from my perspective._  
Aziraphale had been planning something small for their year-and-a-half anniversary, but that was completely out of the question now. 

“It’s Aziraphale,” he said softly. Gabriel had always insisted on calling him “Ezra.” 

In Gabriel’s defense, Aziraphale’s treacherous mind said in that moment, Aziraphale did go by “Ezra” in most public instances. It was easier than having to explain his actual name, which inevitably led to an off-handed mention of his religious and conservative parents with what he always hoped was a casual and nonchalant shrug as he tacked on the fact that he hadn’t spoken to them in years. 

“You dated me, you should at least call me by my actual name,” Aziraphale mumbled.

“Sorry, what was that?” Gabriel asked. “I didn’t quite catch it.” 

“Oh, nothing.” 

It wasn’t worth the effort. Gabriel nodded and then launched into an explanation of how he would send the few things Aziraphale had left at his flat to Aziraphale’s flat at once. 

Perhaps this is why, later on that evening, Aziraphale had dusted off his laptop, turned it on — after a few attempts at finding the power button — and typed into a search field, “How to feel more attractive, please.” 

After a few misguided results — really, these places should hardly be using this sort of thing to sell him nefarious goods — he stumbled on an advice forum. There were many interesting recommendations, most of which involved considering a wardrobe change.

“There’s nothing wrong with the way I dress,” he said to his empty room, smoothing down his waistcoat. It would have sounded more indignant had he not hiccoughed at the end. He’d drank a rather large amount of wine by this point. 

At the bottom of the page, he noticed a short response from someone called “dreamweaver0” who described a website that she and her girlfriend had posted on to feel sexier. 

“At first I was scared, but the community was really receptive! Here’s the link,” Aziraphale read aloud, his voice pitching upward at the end of the sentence like a half-asked question.

Squinting at the screen, he clicked on the blue highlighted text and quickly gasped as a photograph of two naked women in a passionate, obviously sexual, embrace appeared in front of him. Despite the nature of the response, he still hadn’t expected that. 

Aziraphale couldn’t really comment on their sexual attractiveness as he was, as one of his and Gabriel’s friends had put it, gayer than a treeful of monkeys on nitrous oxide. 

Briefly he wondered if Michael would be friends with him now. She had been Gabriel’s friend first. 

Compelled to leave a comment, he placed his open bottle of wine on the desk and poised his fingers over the keyboard. 

“Ms. dreamweaver0, you and your partner look perfectly lovely. All the best,” he said as he typed. 

After hitting the enter key with a flourish, Aziraphale picked up his bottle of wine, took an inelegant draught that he would have scolded himself for in any other circumstance, and took a moment to scroll through the comments. Outside of a few nasty ones, the community was overwhelmingly positive if a bit overly descriptive of their own sexual responses. 

Aziraphale licked his lips absentmindedly. 

“I’m going to do it?” he asked aloud. He nodded.

“I’m going to do it.”

That was a bit more convincing. 

It took him approximately a half hour of fumbling with his camera to ensure that it would record. It took him another fifteen minutes to think of an appropriate username — A.Z.F was a fun nod to his actual name without being too obvious, and he didn’t want to go by Ezra here — and ten more to grab a fresh bottle of wine and open it. 

He brought the laptop into his sitting room and placed it across from his sofa. As he laid down, he realized that he had absolutely no idea what to do next. After another draught of wine, he supposed that he should simply do what he did normally, and perhaps that would be enough. He could do that. 

Aziraphale began by slowly unbuttoning his trousers, wiggling them over his hips until they felt onto the floor. Lying back on the sofa, he palmed himself through his pants, feeling his cock slowly start to harden. He imagined people watching him and it felt — well, if he was being completely honest with himself it felt a bit strange, but not at all in a bad way. Instead it made him feel oddly powerful. His cock twitched and he whimpered, pressing gently on the head as it began to leak precome. 

Pulling down his pants in a surprisingly fluid motion, Aziraphale gasped and sighed as he tugged at his own erection. It felt good to know that people could watch this and possibly pleasure themselves. He moaned loudly at this thought, his hips bucking up off of the sofa and into his hand, causing more friction. It took him a bit longer than usual to come — partially because of the drink, partially due to a lack of lubrication, he hadn’t thought this through quite thoroughly enough — but he promptly fell asleep afterwards, leaving an eight-hour recording in total, the majority of which was him snoring softly.

He woke up early that morning well before sunrise with a crick in his neck, a headache, a sense of overwhelming embarrassment, and twelve notifications on the site. 

His face burned with a flush that extended well beyond his cheeks when he found no less than four comments calling him “cute.” 

Aziraphale tasked himself with reading and responding to all of his comments, even the one that made fun of him for falling asleep, and set off to the kitchen for his morning tea and possibly some paracetamol. When he returned to his sofa and laptop, there was an additional thirteenth comment on his video. 

**RidemyBentley:**  
_You’re beautiful, angel_

“Oh.”

He breathed out slowly as tears welled up in his eyes. It was the perfect balm to any wounds inflicted by Gabriel.

“You’re too kind,” Aziraphale typed as his response. “However, I do seem to have received a positive response! I’m thinking of possibly starting a stream.”


	3. The Coffee Room (Crowley)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Ah, my dear boy, if you don’t want to go through all this, I won’t blame you for not being interested.”_
> 
> _He paused and took a sip of his tea. Crowley watched as a droplet beaded at the corner of his lips._
> 
> _“I know how difficult Anathema can be when she’s focused on something, even if she means well.”_
> 
> _“Oh no, I definitely am,” Crowley said, nodding violently. “I am interested. Very, very interested”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone is staying safe and staying at home (if able). <3

“I knew you would come in. Here’s your ‘black coffee.’”

The dark-haired young woman behind the counter refrained from making air quotes with her fingers, but her voice pitched up all the same. 

Crowley scoffed and grabbed the take-away cup with a yawn.

“Read anything good lately, Book Girl?”

She rolled her eyes, wiping her hands on her apron. 

HR Higgins was the type of place that Crowley felt like he had to go to for coffee, because it was posh or historic or something. At least, that’s what he had told himself before he had walked in for the first time a few years ago, immediately after moving into his then-new flat. The woman behind the counter — the same one who was smirking at him currently from behind that same counter — had merely looked up from a thick, leather-bound hardcover and said, “I knew you would come in. Here’s your ‘black coffee,’” complete with the same branded take-away cup.

The entire thing had been so spooky, Crowley had nearly walked out immediately. 

“Anathema Device,” she had said, reaching out her hand as if she had anticipated that Crowley was both ready to bolt and would also feel just guilty enough to accept her handshake. 

“Try it,” she had said, nodding at the take-away cup in Crowley’s left hand. 

Crowley didn’t actually like black coffee. Much like this first visit to H. R. Higgins, it was something that was in character for a person like him, but wasn’t really him as a person. He braced himself for the inevitable bitterness only to be greeted by unexpected sweetness and a hint of nutmeg. 

That had been spooky enough to send Crowley nearly running out the door, tripping over an odd bicycle outside with a basket and signboard that was larger than the tires. His inaugural visit had then ended in a row with Anathema which Crowley had decidedly lost when she had proven that it could be ridden, albeit in a very wobbly fashion — she had nearly been hit by a wayward car. 

Crowley was ninety-percent certain that her manager had removed the chain after that incident. As far as Crowley was concerned, he was surprised it hadn’t happened sooner. 

They had been grudgingly friendly acquaintances ever since. It paid to be friendly with the person who made his coffee, especially one that knew his tastes instinctively and was polite enough to keep his secrets, like the fact that he didn’t actually take his coffee black.

Alternatively, she was waiting for the perfect time to blackmail him. 

He took a moment to breathe in deeply, taking in the scents of coffee, tea, and a slightly sweet whiff of jam. Steam hissed from the espresso machine

“Have you ever seen the Coffee Room, Crowley?” 

Crowley had never seen the Coffee Room. He had no reason to ever visit the Coffee Room and punctuated his “No” with a shake of his take-away cup. 

Anathema clapped her hands in mock surprise as Crowley eyed her wearily. 

“We’ll fix that today, then,” she said. 

Crowley knew it was useless to fight Anathema when she was in a mood. He didn’t believe in whatever it was that Anathema believed in — Witchcraft? The Tarot? Satanism? Some sort of cult thing around orbs and crystals? — but her instincts, supernatural or no, had never been bad for Crowley. In fact, it was more that she was trying to help, albeit in a weird and slightly freaky way. 

“I’m going to be late for work,” Crowley grumbled as he let himself be led downstairs.

***

There were few moments where Crowley had felt truly speechless — two to be exact, and both of them involved his family.

That morning, in the H. R. Higgins Coffee Room marked the third. 

At the centre of the room, seated alone at a table filled with a variety of jams, a saucer of lemon slices, a pot of tea, a half-eaten scone, and a slightly-wilted red tulip in a glass was none other than A.Z.F. 

Crowley would recognize those blue eyes, blond curls, and warm smile anywhere. He’d been staring at them on his computer screen for hours at a time. 

Even if Crowley had mistaken another person for A.Z.F. from basic physical characteristics, how many men wore cream-coloured trousers, a purple waistcoat, and a tartan bowtie? In public? 

He’d seen A.Z.F. slip out of this very outfit, piece by piece, running his hands over pink skin that seemed to be in a permanent flush. 

There was no doubt in Crowley’s mind that this was the exact man that he had longed for 

Anathema’s voice faded as Crowley’s ears filled with an odd rush, almost as if he was underwater. He watched as A.Z.F. took a bite of the scone and gave a rather loud moan of delight that went straight to Crowley’s cock. 

He wanted to sit across from this man and feed him the rest of the scone, tracing his fingers over A.Z.F.’s lips, brushing away any stray crumbs. A.Z.F would look at him with a soft smile, sucking on his fingers before pulling Crowley forward by his tie, leaning over the table to— 

“And this is Aziraphale,” Anathema was saying. “He’s one of our other regulars.”

He’d known, of course, that A.Z.F. lived in London, but the chances of running into him like this were, well they had to be slim. Despite dealing with statistics regularly at his job, Crowley wouldn’t say that he had a mind for maths. 

He straightened his posture and shifted a bit, hoping that his growing erection wasn’t too obvious.

“That’s . . . a mouthful,” Crowley managed to choke out. 

Anathema snorted. 

A.Z.F., _Aziraphale_ , looked at him with confusion and a fading smile.

“I mean, the name,” Crowley said. 

A.Z.F. traced the handle of his teacup with a visible wince. 

“Religious parents, I’m afraid.”

_Oh, his voice._

Crowley was in a lot of trouble. He shifted his legs again and chewed on his bottom lip nervously. 

“Crowley here was just saying how he’d love to try out the Coffee Room!” Anathema said, cutting through the building awkwardness. “Can you believe he’s been coming here for two years and hasn’t been down here once?”

A.Z.F. _no, Aziraphale, don’t call him A.Z.F. whatever you do_ smiled broadly, although it didn’t quite reach his eyes as it had before. 

“Well you’re welcome to join me, my dear boy,” Aziraphale said, gesturing at the spread in front of him. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to eat all of this myself.”

“I’d love to,” Crowley croaked. He waved his take-away cup in the air. 

“Let me just go upstairs and get this remade.”

***

“Is this a joke?” Crowley hissed at Anathema after looking wildly around the coffee shop, ensuring that there were no other customers present.

“What are you talking about?”

“A.Z.F!”

“You mean Aziraphale?”

Anathema sounded genuinely confused, beyond the mock confusion she would have adopted for a practical joke. Her eyes narrowed.

“What’s wrong with him?”

Her tone was one that promised anger and potentially violence, depending on Crowley’s answer.

“He’s—“

_The hottest man I’ve ever seen?_

_The only porn I’ve watched in ages?_

“Nice.”

Crowley visibly cringed at his own response. By contrast, Anathema’s frown turned into a smug grin. 

“So you’re not interested?”

Crowley waved his arms around in the air, nearly dropping his coffee in the process.

"I mean, of course not. You know. Because I’m . . . busy,” Crowley finished lamely. 

Anathema raised an eyebrow.

“Mhmmm.”

“I mean it, Book Girl!”

Crowley brandished his index finger a few centimetres away from her nose, leaning forward across the counter. 

“I’m a Very. Busy. Man.”

“Of course you are,” she said with that vacant stare of hers that made her appear to be looking at nothing and everything all at once. 

“You’re a creepy one, Book Girl.”

“And you’re an idiot, _Anthony_.”

“Ngk.”

“Here’s your ‘black coffee.’”

She slid a steaming mug across the counter. It appeared to be simply black coffee, but smelled faintly of nutmeg.

***

“My dear, I do believe we’ve been set up.”

Aziraphale smiled at him as if he was letting Crowley in on the secret of the known universe. He leaned across the table and Crowley had to stop himself from flinching. 

Or doing something completely idiotic, like pulling Aziraphale towards him and snogging him senseless. 

“Ngk.”

Crowley was seated across from the man of his dreams and couldn’t do anything but make odd gurgling noises. 

Aziraphale’s face fell. 

“Ah, my dear boy, if you don’t want to go through all this, I won’t blame you for not being interested.”

He paused and took a sip of his tea. Crowley watched as a droplet beaded at the corner of his lips.

“I know how difficult Anathema can be when she’s focused on something, even if she means well.”

“Oh no, I definitely am,” Crowley said, nodding violently. “I am interested. Very, very interested”

Aziraphale still looked like he didn’t quite believe Crowley, but at least he visibly relaxed a bit. Placing his teacup down on the table again, Aziraphale shifted and rolled up his shirtsleeves. 

“It’s a tad warm in here, isn’t it?” 

Crowley cleared his throat. In many ways, this was even more erotic than some of A.Z.F.’s streams. 

“I mean, I’m surprised you went along with her,” Crowley finally said. “I’m the one who’s interrupting your morning routine.”

“Ah, yes, well . . .”

Aziraphale trailed off, hiding a slight blush behind another sip of tea. 

Crowley’s eyes widened. 

At a later date, Crowley would identify this specific exchange as the first instance (of many) where he should have been wholly truthful, as it would have saved him no small amount of heartache down the road. 

Instead, Crowley spent all of his energy trying not to whimper as he watched Aziraphale drink the rest of the tea, finish the scone, and pat his mouth with a handkerchief while they made small talk about the coffee, the tea, and the weather. Aziraphale ate in a sensual way that Crowley hadn’t realized was possible. Later that night, Crowley was unable to remember anything that they had talked about, but could easily imagine those lips wrapped around the length of him as he ran his hands roughly through Aziraphale’s curls tugging on them with every moan from Aziraphale’s mouth. 

“—headed to Bond Street?”

Crowley could only assume that Aziraphale was asking him if he was headed to the tube. It didn’t really make sense for him to go to the Bond Street tube station over Green Park, especially when he was already late to work, although the distance was fairly negligible. 

“Yeah,” Crowley found himself saying. “Was just headed that way myself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those wondering what Aziraphale's take on this exchange is and what's behind some of his mannerisms, his side will be presented in a later chapter. ^ ^
> 
> Thanks again to anyone who is reading this. Hopefully it might be able to brighten your day, even for a few minutes.


	4. Guilt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Crowley had a problem, and it was far larger than his family finding out that he was dating a man who also effectively had a side job as a sex worker._
> 
> _Groaning loudly, he laid his forehead on his keyboard. Crowley had always had a flair for the dramatic, but in this specific case, he would swear — in the comfort of his own home and only between yelling at his plants — that he could feel the guilt eating away at his insides._

Crowley had run out of work to do that week. 

Usually Crowley would entertain himself with the many computer games he had hidden on his computer . He had started with the free ones, Minesweeper, Freecell, and upon realizing that no one was going to stop him continued to install more obvious and obnoxious games. Recently he had become enamoured with a game called Counterstrike: Global Offensive, basking in the rage of his teammates once they realized just how bad he was. No one in the office had noticed that he wasn’t actually working. Or if they had, they hadn’t reported it. For once, the company’s general policy of stick to your cubicle and do your work was working in Crowley’s favour. 

Unfortunately, Crowley had not loaded in yet and one of his bosses’ lackeys was headed his way with a specific smile: a “how can I mess with the bosses’ son” type of smile. Crowley minimized a few tabs on his screen and pulled up a mass of spreadsheets. Liger didn’t have a head for figures and hated maths. Perhaps the sheer amount of numbers on Crowley’s monitor would drive him away. 

“Hullo Craaawly.”

Crowley sighed. Since their university days, Liger and his pal Hastur had insisted on calling him “Crawly” for some unknown reason that only the two of them found hilarious. Neither of them were known for their ingenuity — it had been a bit miraculous that either of them had made it through uni at all, even with their respective families’ wealth. The fact that Liger had already jumped straight to his uni nickname meant that Liger similarly had no work, and had decided to make fun of Crowley to pass the time. 

“You’ve been awfully happy lately, Crawly. Who’s the girl?”

“There is no girl, Liger.”

Crowley fought the smile that threatened to appear on his face whenever he thought of Aziraphale. They had gone on twelve wonderful dates since The Coffee Room weeks ago — and Crowley didn’t have the habit of calling anything in his life “wonderful.” He wasn’t successful at hiding his smile and Liger sneered.

“Or guy.” Liger shrugged. “Doesn’t matter to me. You know Hastur and I have been together for ages. So who put the smile on your face? Sex that good, eh? I’ve heard you singing in the break room.”

Crowley unfortunately knew more about Liger and Hastur than he wanted to due to their more voyeuristic tendencies and the fact that they’d all been in the same dormitory for a year. First year of uni had been a long year. 

Continuing the fight to keep a smile off of his face, Crowley looked up at his monitor. 

“As you can see, I’m very busy.” 

He gestured to no fewer than five spreadsheets that had all been opened on top of each other, fanned out across his monitor. Crowley smiled as the predictable look of revulsion crossed Liger’s face before it was quickly replaced with a cruel smirk. 

“I’ll figure it out soon enough,” Liger said, wagging his finger in an odd mimicry of a school headmaster. “And then we’ll see what your parents have to say about it.”

Liger walked away with an exaggerated wave. 

“Ta for the chat, Crawly. Enlightening stuff.”

“Prat,” Crowley replied, but Liger had already turned the corner to the elevator that would take him back to higher levels of their building and the executive suites. Liger’s office was two levels below Beez’s, a fact that she persisted in reminding him of at any opportunity.

“If only you had tried to get a position and cooperated,” she had said. “You would have an office with the rest of the family.”

He sighed and closed his spreadsheets in quick succession. 

Crowley had a problem, and it was far larger than his family finding out that he was dating a man who also effectively had a side job as a sex worker. 

Groaning loudly, he laid his forehead on his keyboard. Crowley had always had a flair for the dramatic, but in this specific case, he would swear — in the comfort of his own home and only between yelling at his plants — that he could feel the guilt eating away at his insides.

***

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale said. He murmured this into Crowley’s neck, which he had, until a few seconds ago, been kissing quite thoroughly.

“Do you think he’ll tell your parents?”

Crowley shrugged.

After Liger’s unpleasant visit, Crowley had invited Aziraphale out to dinner. Dinner had quickly turned into drinks back at Aziraphale’s flat — a cosy space with nearly as many books scattered haphazardly about as the bookshop below where Aziraphale worked. Crowley was now comfortably between tipsy and drunk, not bothering to hide any of his smiles. From the permanent blush on his cheeks, Aziraphale was in a similar state, occasionally giggling and hiccoughing before chasing Crowley’s lips with his own and pressing their foreheads together. 

“Doesn’t really matter if he does. There’s not that much more that they can do to me.”

“Anthony!”

Crowley had yet to reveal that Aziraphale was the only person who would ever call him Anthony outside of his family. Aziraphale usually called him Crowley per his request, but an admonishing “Anthony” was oddly heartwarming, not to mention a bit hot. 

He twitched, shifting to hide his discomfort. By the sudden look of interest, Aziraphale had noticed, although he still looked worried. 

“There really isn’t,” Crowley said. He took Aziraphale’s hands and squeezed them in what he hoped was a reassuring way before picking up his half-empty wine glass from a nearby stack of books. 

“They’ll never move me out of the company. That would be more of an embarrassment than having a son who doesn’t want to inherit it. No, they’ll keep me at my low-level job like usual, hoping I’ll come around to their way of life’ or something. Cheers to never doing that.”

A bit of wine sloshed from the rim of his glass as Crowley mockingly waved his arms in the air for an unspoken toast before draining the last of it. 

“If you say so my dear.”

Crowley’s breath hitched as Aziraphale leaned into him. Aziraphale’s thigh was between his legs and he couldn’t help but sink his fingers into it, stroking lightly upwards.

“Now,” Aziraphale said hoarsely. “Where were we?”

Aziraphale tasted like wine. His nose bumped awkwardly into Aziraphale’s, prompting a giggle. Crowley pressed a kiss to the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth, breathing into him before whining and kissing him eagerly. His hips bucked up, grinding his cock into Aziraphale’s thigh, which was still pressed flush against him. 

Crowley was living out some of his more entertaining fantasies of the past year. Although his brain was understandably slow to catch up, it eventually did, souring the entire experience just as he was slowly undoing the buttons of Aziraphale’s shirt, revealing the soft swell of his belly underneath. They twitched just as he began to slip them past Aziraphale’s trousers.

He knew the exact shape of Aziraphale’s body. He knew Aziraphale’s pink, plump cock and plush arse. He had committed them to memory well before they had ever met in person. And he wanted Aziraphale more than any other person that he had ever wanted in his entire life.

But Aziraphale _didn’t know that_.

“I can’t,” Crowley said breathlessly. “I’m sorry. I’m not ready.”

The words felt like dust in Crowley’s mouth. 

Aziraphale looked a bit confused and more than a bit hurt, giving Crowley’s fingers a pointed look. Crowley clenched his fists around the waistband of Aziraphale’s trousers and pulled away, panting.

“I thought I was. But I’m not.”

_Stupid, stupid, he’ll never believe you, stupid, stupid, why I am such a bloody moron?_

“I thought I was and you’re— You’re amazing, an-Aziraphale.”

Crowley coughed loudly to hide his slip-up.

“I’m just an idiot.”

 _Stupid, stupid, stupid, he deserves better_. Crowley repeated this mantra in his head, his chest clenching further at Aziraphale’s understanding smile. 

“Of course, my dear,” Aziraphale said. He brought his hands up to Crowley’s face, cupping his cheeks.

Crowley couldn’t help but close his eyes and lean into them. It made him feel even worse.

“Soon,” he said hoarsely.

***

That night, Crowley tuned into Aziraphale’s stream on schedule, wondering if his abrupt exit had soured Aziraphale’s mood enough that it would come across on camera.

He half-hoped that Aziraphale was mad at him like he deserved and that it would somehow affect his stream. Maybe Aziraphale would be crosser than usual, answering viewer questions and comments a bit more tersely.

Instead, when the stream began, he and other viewers found Aziraphale already naked, writhing on his sofa, cock in hand.

“I’m sorry my dears,” Aziraphale said. He was already panting and his cheeks remained red from the wine they had drank earlier that evening. 

“I found myself in a bit of a predicament tonight. This is going to be a sh-o-rt stream.” 

Aziraphale’s voice rose in pitch as he pressed his thumb down on the tip of his cock. Moaning loudly, his hips jerked off of the sofa. A small drop of precome glistened at the slit and Aziraphale quickly rubbed it between his fingers, pumping his hand up and down.

Crowley had been on that same sofa mere hours ago.

“And I’ve been rather in-capa-ci-tated since.”

Aziraphale’s thighs bucked up into the air as he squirmed, still moaning loudly. 

“And I want—oh!”

Crowley’s trousers and pants instantly fell to the floor. He had been half-hard since leaving Aziraphale’s flat. Hearing that Aziraphale had been in a similar state — and had implied that he’d purposefully kept himself there for hours — had Crowley coming in record time. 

After a few moments to catch his breath, Crowley wiped his hands with a tissue from his conveniently-placed tissue box on his desktop and typed out a message.

**RidemyBentley:**  
_I don’t think I’ve ever come that hard or fast before, angel._

Aziraphale’s face lit up with a soft smile as he read Crowley’s — no, RideMyBentley’s — comment aloud.

“Ah I knew I could count on you, my dear. Thank you.” 

Crowley felt awful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn, I'm actively terrible at writing porn. Anyway, sorry for the mild angst and don't worry, it will not get any more angsty than this chapter.


	5. The Coffee Room (Aziraphale)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The man, Anthony J. Crowley Anathema had said, looked utterly poleaxed making Aziraphale almost instantly regret ever bringing up his existence. Anathema was practically pushing him towards Aziraphale, laughing. The man’s face was mottled, both pale and flushed, clashing horribly with a shock of auburn hair that brightened to a proper red under the warm lights of the Coffee Room._
> 
> _Despite twitching uncomfortably, Anthony Crowley was gorgeous — even more beautiful than Aziraphale could have ever imagined when observing him from afar._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was stuck on how to end this for a long time. The end result is that this POV chapter is its separate standalone chapter and the total chapter count was increased by one. 
> 
> I'm sorry for the delay and hope it ends well enough to please people. ^ ^;;;

While it had looked ostentatious enough — it was a place where Gabriel could be seen and photographed above all else —H. R. Higgins at the Bond Street tube station was also homey in a way that Aziraphale found exceedingly pleasant and not at all stuffy. 

Despite assumptions based on the way he dressed, Aziraphale wasn’t fond of anything overly elaborate or outwardly gaudy. He loved the finer things in life — he would be the first person to admit that if others didn’t always admit it for him and to his face during conversations — but they were meant to be enjoyed not placed on a figurative shelf to marvel at. 

Aziraphale walked in the day that Gabriel dumped him, remembering exactly this and how Gabriel had dragged him out of the coffee shop before he could explore The Coffee Room downstairs or their full selection of teas. 

Gabriel had ordered for him and whisked both of them out the door after he had photographed himself inside. 

“I knew you would come in again,” the dark-haired woman behind the counter called out to Aziraphale as he walked in.

***

Every morning, before opening his book shop, Aziraphale made a habit of popping into H. R. Higgins, ordering whichever tea tickled his fancy that day — he’d gone through each and every one of them and would always try new teas the day they made it onto the menu — and taking it in the Coffee Room below. 

Every morning a tall lanky man with bright red hair also stopped in. He rushed through conversations with Anathema that Aziraphale couldn’t hear — although the man had to have been at the very least entertaining given how often Anathema laughed — before grabbing his paper take-away cup like a lifeline and running back down the street. Aziraphale assumed he worked in one of the offices nearby, or lived in Mayfair and this was en route to his job. 

Every morning, Aziraphale watched the man from the rim of his teacup. He was quite possibly the most strikingly beautiful man that Aziraphale had ever seen in his entire life. 

Despite his height, the man walked with an unearthly grace. His clothes fit him perfectly, something that often made Aziraphale look down at his own in comparison and wince. 

Aziraphale dressed nicely, but he hadn’t been to a tailor in quite some time, and occasionally his shirtsleeves were stained with ink to match his fingertips. 

“You like him,” Anathema told him one morning as she delivered a tray of scones and their latest black tea variety to his usual table. 

By this point the man had been a welcome and frequent addition to his nightly video inspirations. 

“I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re talking about,” Aziraphale said in what he hoped was a dismissive manner and not at all expressing any sort of shock at her constantly peculiar insights. 

She always accurately predicted the weather for him, even the most sudden of downpours. 

“I’m sure you haven’t,” she said airily as she set down the tray. From across the room someone called out to her.

“Just a minute!” she yelled before turning back to Aziraphale. “Look Aziraphale, I can help you. He’s probably in need of a friend. Or something more.”

Anathema looked him up and down in a way that somehow wasn’t nearly as indecent as the action suggested. 

“I think you two would get on, I really do,” she said.

***

“And this is Aziraphale. He’s one of our other regulars.”

The man, Anthony J. Crowley Anathema had said, looked utterly poleaxed making Aziraphale almost instantly regret ever bringing up his existence. Anathema was practically pushing him towards Aziraphale, laughing. The man’s face was mottled, both pale and flushed, clashing horribly with a shock of auburn hair that brightened to a proper red under the warm lights of the Coffee Room. 

Despite twitching uncomfortably, Anthony Crowley was gorgeous — even more beautiful than Aziraphale could have ever imagined when observing him from afar.

“That’s . . . a mouthful,” the man said with a slight stutter.

Aziraphale smiled, biting back a nervous chuckle. He didn’t want Anthony Crowley to think he was laughing at him. A snort from Anathema told Aziraphale that she had been less successful in hiding her mirth, although it was probably meant for both of them in their awkwardness.

“I mean, the name.” The man said this quickly as if it was an apology to Aziraphale for an unknown affront committed.   
Aziraphale hoped he didn’t look too off when addressing his own name.

Not quite over how Gabriel always called him Ezra — the A.Z.F handle was a way of reclaiming his name, so to speak— Aziraphale sighed and traced the gilded rim of his teacup with his finger.

He supposed any relationship he entered would have to involve compromises around his name.

“Religious parents, I’m afraid,” he said quietly.

The man rocked on his heels nervously. Aziraphale wasn’t surprised that he didn’t know what to say. How should one exactly follow up on a statement like that given that “I’m sorry” ranged from not particularly appropriate to excessively rude depending on how close one was with their parents. 

Aziraphale chuckled internally at this and smiled, as if he’d told a joke aloud. 

“Crowley here was just saying how he’d love to try out the Coffee Room!” Anathema said. 

Her voice was buoyant with false cheeriness. Anathema was typically a warm person but not an exceptionally energetic one. 

“Can you believe he’s been coming here for two years and hasn’t been down here once?”

This was pointedly directed at Aziraphale. He could almost hear Anathema’s voice between his ears, yelling at him to take initiative and invite Anthony Crowley to sit down. 

For his part the man looked a bit catatonic, eyes darting everywhere but Aziraphale’s face. 

This had definitely been a mistake, although Aziraphale was hardly going to blame Anathema for it. He had asked her to give him a helping hand, so to speak. 

Aziraphale smiled up at Anthony Crowley. He hoped he looked as genuine and inviting as possible as he gestured to the food and tea on the table. 

“Well you’re welcome to join me, my dear boy,” he said. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to eat all of this myself.”

“I’d love to,” the man immediately responded, but wiggled his take-away cup in the air. “Let me just go upstairs and get this remade.”

He all but ran back up the stairs with Anathema in tow.

Aziraphale sighed again and looked into his tea. Suddenly the scones looked wholly unappetizing, despite how wonderful they had tasted moments before. He couldn’t help but hear Gabriel’s voice in his head at times like these.

_You’re just so . . . soft._

The purple waistcoat and cream trousers that had appeared so sharp that morning in the mirror now seemed like a terrible idea. Anthony Crowley surely had taken one look at him and decided that Anathema’s machinations were decidedly unwelcome. 

Aziraphale closed his eyes and breathed in the steam still rising from his tea. He opened them, confused, when he smelled a hint of nutmeg only to see that Anthony Crowley had slid into the chair next to him with a mug of coffee. Coffee with nutmeg apparently, which was oddly heartwarming to Aziraphale since the man looked like the sort to take his coffee black. 

“My dear, I do believe we’ve been set up,” Aziraphale said. 

He leaned towards Anthony under the pretense of divulging a secret so he could study the man’s face. 

Anthony Crowley’s eyes were a bright hazel, nearly yellow in colour, with green around the centre surrounding wide black pupils. He had a hawkish nose and high cheekbones which were still flushed with splashes of red. 

The man didn’t look angry but he did appear quite uncomfortable with the entire thing. 

Resisting the urge to sigh again, Aziraphale folded his hands in his lap primly. He wasn’t about to force this poor man to date him regardless of what Anathema had said when the two had gone back upstairs. 

“Ah, my dear boy, if you don’t want to go through all this, I won’t blame you for not being interested.”

Aziraphale sipped his tea and tried to look as unaffected as he possibly could to make the entire situation less awkward. 

“I know how difficult Anathema can be when she’s focused on something, even if she means well.”

“Oh no, I definitely am,” Crowley responded before Aziraphale had completely finished speaking. His head bobbed up and down rapidly like a toy. “I am interested. Very, very interested”

Aziraphale flushed pleasantly, only then realizing just how warm it was in the Coffee Room at the moment. He rolled up his shirtsleeves, laughing a bit internally at how this was, to the best of his recollection, exactly how at least one of his videos had started. 

“It’s a tad warm in here, isn’t it?” 

Anthony Crowley cleared his throat loudly and stared at Aziraphale for another moment. Aziraphale didn’t really know what else to do other than mildly smile back. 

“I mean, I’m surprised you went along with her,” Crowley said. He made up for his lengthy pauses in responding by rushing the words out as quickly as possible. “I’m the one who’s interrupting your morning routine.”

“Ah, yes, well . . .” Aziraphale blushed again. He wasn’t really sure how to bring up his own role in orchestrating this entire setup. After the first few dates at least — then it would become one of those funny little stories that couples told to other people about the perceived enormity of their coming together. 

He was thinking too far ahead. 

For his part, Anthony Crowley — he really should have asked if the man preferred to be called Anthony or something else, if only to stop him from calling the man by his full name — was rather quiet. Yet, the colour in his cheeks had died down and he appeared content to simply watch Aziraphale eat. 

Aziraphale slid a scone in his direction, but Crowley shook his head minutely only to follow up on Aziraphale’s comment on the weather several minutes before. 

By the end of their conversation and a quick walk to the Bond Street tube station, Aziraphale deduced that Anthony Crowley was simply shy. He smiled at the juxtaposition of Anthony Crowley’s exterior and perceived interior. 

Perhaps this would work out after all.


	6. Dinner at the Ritz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Crowley, you knew about—“_
> 
> _“I didn’t know,” Crowley said roughly, interrupting Aziraphale mid-question._
> 
> _“Are you stalking me?”_
> 
> _“No!”_
> 
> _Crowley supposed he deserved this accusation, but couldn’t help but bristle at the thought._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley finally confesses.

Crowley didn’t like using his family’s money, but desperate times called for desperate measures. So, after extensive mental preparation that may or may not have involved a few shots of whisky, Anthony J. Crowley called his sister who, once she had finished coercing him into two family dinners, let him borrow the family Bentley — an antique over which his mother had previously threatened his life, and the inspiration for his account name on Aziraphale’s stream. 

“You must really like him,” she had said with an incisive wink that promised all sorts of familial torture in Crowley’s future. 

Crowley had merely swallowed so hard that it seemed audible and made Beez promise not to tell their parents about his relationship yet. After all, there was a high probability that there wouldn’t be a relationship after this dinner. This plea had caused a renegotiation that included several more dinners, weekly check-ins, and revisiting his status at work. The only positive was that, based on Beez’s reaction, Hastur and Liger presumably hadn’t let anything slip.

Knuckles turning white around the vintage leather-covered steering wheel, Crowley gritted his teeth and reminded himself that this was for Aziraphale, who had done nothing wrong in any of this. 

Aziraphale, who had always wanted to dine at the Ritz, but had never been able to mentally justify the expense.

As he drove it back to his flat, he picked up a bouquet of flowers along the way. The bubbly girl behind the counter assured him that these particular flowers offered his sincerity as well as an apology. 

Crowley would have to initially play ignorance in front of Aziraphale — he was certain Aziraphale was somehow fluent in Victorian flower language since it certainly seemed like one of his things — but at least Aziraphale would see the small modicum of effort put into the flowers after his confession. 

He put on one of his six perfectly-tailored outfits and glared at himself in the mirror as he deftly tied a double Windsor. 

This too seemed like the type of detail Aziraphale would appreciate and it wasn’t as if he hadn’t been properly taught how to tie a necktie — he had known from what he assumed was an obscenely young age for anyone outside of the actual Duke of Windsor’s extended family — it was that he didn’t like to bother with it. 

Although Aziraphale wore waistcoats and bowties, he seemed like the sort of person who would delight in Crowley’s effort. The week prior, he had held his umbrella over Aziraphale’s head as it rained and Aziraphale had looked at him like he’d hung the moon. 

Thinking about Aziraphale’s potential reaction to his outfit — and the night in general — only made Crowley both nauseous and unfortunately aroused. He smoothed his trousers with his hands, for once thanking the fact that he generally ran cold and his palms weren’t damp with sweat. 

Crowley wondered if he should take Aziraphale’s hand or offer his arm when he met the man at his door and then shook his head, cursing his reflection. 

“You tell him tonight you fucking wanker.” 

Crowley threatened his image by pointing at himself with a scowl. The pad of his index finger left a grease smudge on the mirror, blurring his left cheek. 

“And if he leaves you it will be your own fucking fault.”

***

The dinner was as close to perfect as Crowley could have imagined it. He’d been to the Ritz a few times with his family and his memories of it were middling to poor because of it.

Aziraphale had all but eradicated these memories by throughly enjoying every bite of food placed in front of him. 

The food turned to ash in Crowley’s mouth thanks to the yet-to-be-uttered truth of everything looming over the entire affair. Yet, this didn’t stop Crowley’s cock twitched at every obscene moan from Aziraphale’s mouth as he ate and — in the immediate hindsight of grinding against Aziraphale’s lap on a bench in Green Park — was a miracle that Crowley hadn’t begged off in the middle of the however-many-course meal to go to the gents and finish himself off to avoid the discomfort. 

He had settled for strategically moving his cloth napkin around his lap while crossing and uncrossing and recrossing his legs. At one point, Aziraphale had taken an accidental brush of Crowley’s foot as an invitation and that had nearly ruined him. From Aziraphale’s expression, the blond-haired man was very much aware of this, eyes brightly following Crowley’s tongue as he inadvertently licked his lips. 

Somehow the night was perfect for a walk and Crowley nodded along to Aziraphale’s request that they “take a turn around Green Park.” 

“Aptly named, isn’t it?” Aziraphale said, giggling to himself a bit as he took Crowley’s arm.

“You should always be like this,” Crowley blurted out in a rush.

Aziraphale looked at him, confused. “Like what?”

“Like this.” Crowley gestured wildly at Aziraphale’s body and when the bewildered expression didn’t leave the blond-haired man’s face, Crowley found himself rambling.

“All loose and comfortable like this. I like you like this. You should be happy always, making terrible jokes and ‘taking turns around the park’ and having a giant meal at the Ritz because you really enjoy it more than anyone. I’ve been here a few times and never enjoyed it until you.” 

It had to be one of the more idiotic and rambling things that Crowley had said over the course of their about-to-be short-lived relationship. 

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, his voice impossibly fond and cracking on Crowley’s name. His eyes shone with unshed tears. 

Suddenly, Aziraphale’s lips were on his. Crowley certainly wasn’t in any hurry to bring Aziraphale to his flat for his planned confession and his procrastination coupled with Aziraphale’s warm body pressed against his as they walked was how they ended up tangled in each other on a worn park bench.

“Please, come back to mine, angel,” Crowley said, letting the nickname slip as he whispered this against Aziraphale’s bottom lip. 

He hoped his voice didn’t sound as desperate to Aziraphale as it did rumbling through his own ears.

“Yes, my dear. Of course, yes.”

Aziraphale’s breath was hot and eager against his cheek. He could feel Aziraphale’s hardness through his trousers and closed his eyes, imagining for one moment what it would be like to truly take Aziraphale home without pretense. 

Driving the Bentley back to his flat when they were already in Mayfair was a bit ridiculous, but Crowley had borrowed the Bentley for a reason. It was well worth the concessions made to his family to see Aziraphale flushed and rumpled in the passenger’s seat, lips red and swollen as Crowley reluctantly pulled away from him in order to drive. 

Crowley knew that this image of Aziraphale in the Bentley would remain with him, regardless of what Aziraphale wanted to do after Crowley admitted that he’d been lying to Aziraphale this entire time. 

It hurt. Crowley gripped the steering wheel tightly, hoping that Aziraphale wouldn’t notice — or if he did, would write it off as nerves. 

He had been rather twitchy around Aziraphale with anything approaching sex, after all. 

Pressing his lips chastely to Aziraphale’s forehead, Crowley slowly keyed in his door code. Each button press felt heavy. The lift ride was far too short — in hindsight he should have taken the stairs like he did when he conveniently wanted to avoid Beez’s calls, just to have more time with Aziraphale. 

Crowley swallowed, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. 

“This is me,” he said softly, turning his key. Aziraphale smiled at him, nearly glowing with excitement. 

No sooner had Crowley closed the door behind him than Aziraphale was kissing him soundly, fingers raking through his already unruly auburn hair, fully loosening it from his earlier attempt at styling it properly. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley breathed reverently. He tilted his head back and Aziraphale dutifully nestled his face into Crowley’s neck, sucking and licking his way up to Crowley’s ear. 

“My dear,” Aziraphale whispered, nipping at Crowley’s earlobe. “How I’ve wanted you.” 

To Crowley, hearing this admission felt like a bucket of ice water had just been dropped from the heavens onto his head. He pulled away from Aziraphale, breathing heavily while tightening his fingers into Aziraphale’s shirt. After a moment, he released Aziraphale and fully stepped away from him. 

“Crowley…”

“I-I have to show you something. And it’s important. And afterwards you can decide whether… well you’ll see.” 

“Crowley you’re not making any sense.” 

Aziraphale tried to say this in the same no-nonsense tone he used towards the rare customer in his shop or when he was teasing Crowley about an obscure piece of etiquette. Crowley bit back a sob at the warm familiarity in Aziraphale’s voice. 

He beckoned for Aziraphale to follow him to his desk. The soft glow from his monitor grew harsh and bright as he typed in his password. Crowley had purposefully left his “RidemyBentley” account logged in and pulled out his office chair so Aziraphale could sit. 

Aziraphale quickly scanned the tab that Crowley had left open and gasped.

“Crowley, you knew about—“

“I didn’t know,” Crowley said roughly, interrupting Aziraphale mid-question. 

“Are you stalking me?”

“No!” 

Crowley supposed he deserved this accusation, but couldn’t help but bristle at the thought. 

“You have no reason to believe me, I suppose. But I didn’t know before we met. Book Girl dragged me downstairs and then I saw you—“

Crowley pulled at his hair, pressing his knuckles into his scalp and pulling until it hurt.

“You’ve always been the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you straight away it was… It would have been bloody awkward, but I should have done it anyway. You deserved that.”

Aziraphale was visibly at a loss for words. Crowley couldn’t stop himself from talking. 

“Months ago I was having a shite day. I got drunk and found you. Online.” Crowley shrugged his shoulders, somehow appearing to shrink with doubt and fear despite his height. 

“Meeting you was probably the best thing to happen to me in… I don’t even know how long. But it was completely a coincidence.”

“Do you…” Aziraphale trailed off, seemingly still unsure of what to say. Confusion, anger, and hurt flickered across his face.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“No angel I…” Crowley squeezed his eyes shut when Aziraphale flinched at the nickname. “You’re so confident in yourself. You’re beautiful. I loved it. You should never stop unless you want to.”

Aziraphale stood up. When he lifted his head, he didn’t meet Crowley’s eyes. 

“Is this why you always pulled away from having sex with me?”

Crowley nodded. 

“It wasn’t because of any other reason but that? You didn’t have a problem with this or… find me unattractive?” Aziraphale gestured towards the computer monitor for emphasis. 

“No,” Crowley said softly. He laughed harshly. “I’m surprised I was able to stop myself at all to be honest. You’ve seen my messages on your stream.”

This coaxed a small smile out of Aziraphale, who tilted his head to the side with a sigh.

“You were my favourite commenter.”

Crowley watched as Aziraphale finally looked into his eyes. Aziraphale studied him for a moment longer before visibly coming to some sort of conclusion and politely pushing the chair back towards Crowley’s desk. 

“I think I should go,” Aziraphale said, fussing with his bowtie. “I need some time to think. You’re right that you should have told me sooner.”

“Okay.”

“It’s not a no,” Aziraphale said quickly. “Or rather, it’s not necessarily an end. It’s just… I have a lot to think about.” 

Crowley couldn’t help but recoil at the despondent note in Aziraphale’s voice. 

_He had done that to Aziraphale._

Clenching his fists at his sides, Crowley nodded in response. He walked forward and politely held the door open so Aziraphale could walk out. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale turned in the doorway.

“Yes?”

“You really didn’t know? Before we met at the coffee shop?”

“No I— I recognized you, you know, but I was shocked to see you there when Anathema introduced us. But you were so… I couldn’t help but sit with you.”

“Thank you for telling me,” Aziraphale whispered as he walked out of Crowley’s flat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully this wasn't too sad and also made sense given their characters. The final chapter will be them talking it out from Aziraphale's POV and then the obvious. ;) If I have time, I may write an epilogue after that.
> 
> Thank you so much to the initial prompter in the kinkmeme for this prompt. I hope wherever you are that you've enjoyed this and I'm sorry for being so slow about writing it. 
> 
> Additionally, thank you so much to everyone who has taken the time to comment and kudos. It means a lot. ^ ^


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